Looking back, in the position I am in now; I have no regrets at all. I reminisce about good memories and reflect on some bad memories. For those starting their transition, maybe you can relate. Hopefully this shows there is light at the end of the tunnel, so hang on in there. Here goes…..
I was born female and brought up female during my early years with a loving mother and support network. I am adopted, but I have a very healthy association with this.
From my earliest memories around 4 to 5 years old I remember feeling my body did not match the way I felt inside. It wasn’t that I wanted to be a tomboy, or wear tracksuit bottoms and play football. It was a deep inner feeling in my heart and soul that my body was wrong. This was not a choice.
I would go to bed every night and pray before I went to sleep that I would wake up in the morning in the right body. I’d wish on every birthday cake to be a boy. I’d search for lucky four leaf clovers or any other magic miracles. But it never happed. I was desperate and on a path to a dark place trapped in the wrong body.
In primary school children would ask me, are you a boy or a girl. I generally just ignored them and carried on. I was much more resilient in primary school. In fact I pushed my way onto the football team and played in the boys team. I pushed for trousers and other girls followed suit.
I never knew about people who where transgender, it was never on T.V, the radio or the Internet. There just wasn’t the information there is today and the advocates speaking out. For those who say the media has caused people to ‘become’ transgender, in my case this just is not true.
At the age of 11 and starting high school I put the pieces together and worked out that nothing was going to miraculously change and it was up to me. I made a pact with myself to just survive. Don’t expect a genie to turn up and grant me my one wish. My mum was my life, and I couldn’t bear to hurt her (I never gave her the credit she deserved to just tell her) but I should have said much sooner. My great plan was to wait until she had passed away before I transitioned, a concept that would break my heart. Doing the math this would mean I could look at transitioning when I was in my 40s. This played on my mind on a daily basis.
I’d sneak into the garage to gaffa tape my chest down, which left painful marks. I did P.E with a jumper on to hide my body, even in 30 degrees summer heat. By this point I was depressed and had developed a number of anxious habits. Pulling out my hair out and afraid of my mother dying in case I was alone. She was my reason for carrying on. At this point surviving was getting much harder in the body I was in.
I made it through most weeks in school, but all the little things I had to do before to feel comfortable where exhausting. As soon as the bell went at the end of the day I’d run to the toilets and change into my P.E shorts and out of the dreaded skirt. I’d wet my hair before every lesson so I could move it off my face and it appeared shorter than it was. My peers at school must have through I was insane.
During the weekends I’d get the bus from my local village into the city and spent hours just thinking. I could have been anywhere, with my earphones I felt safe. To this day music can bring every emotion back, and certain songs can be haunting.
When I got to the city I would sit in the shadows and watch all the happy families go past. I never in my wildest dreams thought I would ever be in a position where I would be starting my own. I’d sometimes go to the cathedral and sit in the corners and just pray for strength. I wasn’t religious, and I wouldn’t know where to start with that. But I’ve always believed there was something out there in the universe bigger than us. I’d light a candle every time and sometimes I wrote asking to be a boy, and sometimes I wrote for just strength for my mum and me.
I’ve not stepped foot back in that cathedral, I know when I do everything will come flooding back, although maybe it would be some closure.
Like everything, there is a breaking point. Mine was in my French class of all places, and I left that lesson never the same again. My mum raced to collect me, and by this point she knew we where at crisis. I spent a week off school trying to gather myself. I wasn’t much of an artist but I spent that week drawing and painting. It was my only way to share how I felt inside.
Months later, my mum got a job offer in a different town and we decided to move. This was to be the real turn around to my story….
If you haven't read my first post, link below
